A tree without family

Late summer 2008 ~

I cannot know whether it was disease, insects, or the violence of the annual floods that drew the life out of the massive tree that was sitting on the west bank of the Red River. Perhaps it was simply age; it was a huge structure, after all.

.

Nor could I conclude whether the corpse was a sprawling American elm or a hardy red oak; I can usually call it from this distance, but the absence of leaves made identification difficult.

Oak, I think.

For one thing, oak is prone to a short, stubby trunk in this region... and wild, knarly branches. But there are other clues, too. Only oak could still appear so sturdy, even though its branches were so lifeless.

.

And only oak could still stand so strong, even while standing alone.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Staircase to the St. Croix

Autumn, 2010 ~
.Whimsy had carried us east of the river, where we stopped at Chateau St. Croix to discover and buy some wonderful wines. Not yet ready to go home, we continued north and found ourselves exploring a gravel road that shadows Fox Creek through the woods.

Usually not more than a bed of damp sand and rock, week-long rains had made the creek high and fast. It was as if the water was rushing down stone steps, eager to get to the bottom of the stairs where the St. Croix River was waiting.

.© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Shy child

.
Autumn, 2010 ~
.It was the first completely free weekend we had been granted in months, so my wife and I decided to explore the shorelines, hills and colors of the St. Croix valley. It was a meandering trip, with no particular destination in mind.

Bright sunlight—softened by high clouds—brought even more contrast to changing foliage; on a single tree, the eye could absorb vivid greens, shimmering golds, and spirited reds.
.
Even on a lone branch, emerald leaves hung beside those which had already burst into their biggest fall colors, both held in place by stems of crimson. It was if the forest was beginning to blush... like a shy child, nervous that people might be staring at her.

But then, they were.
.© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

A home on the St. Croix

Summer, 2007 ~

The collection of branches were too well organized to be placed there accidentally by the wind or water, so I paddled over for a closer look.  As the details came into view, it occurred to me that I had happened across a well-built development.  What seemed like a row of well-placed sticks was actually a beaver dam, held together by mud and tree limbs of various sizes.  It was holding back a considerable pond of water from rains that had fallen earlier in the week.  

In the background--and strategically placed in the shade--a home for these amazing engineers.   

© 2007 – 2011, Mike Anderson.  All rights reserved.

River of glass

Autumn 2007 ~

I had paddled my kayak across a wide expanse on the flooded St. Croix River. Pausing for a break on the other side, I had a moment to look back… where it seemed as if the path I had just taken was covered in glass.

Utterly quiet.  Totally pristine.  As if serenity herself had posed for my camera.


© 2007 - 2011 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Staring into sunrise

Summer 2007 ~

The morning chill was my wake-up call; able to get dressed and grab my camera without waking Julie, I headed for the river. The sun was just rising, and I wanted to meet it.

There is an island on the St. Croix River near Interstate Park.  With rapids in the foreground and geese in the distance, it was the perfect place for a Great Blue Heron to join me… staring into sunrise.

(Click any image to enlarge it.)

© 2007 - 2011 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Minnehaha Falls

Summer, 2011 ~

The water dropped over Minnehaha Falls with such power that clouds of vapor were forced upward; it was a heavy, hair-lifting breeze that you could actually see, because of the moisture it carried.

They call it a creek… but I think it much more powerful than that.

© 2011 Mike Anderson. All rights reserved.

A game of chance

Summer 2010 ~

As a whole, nature is a skilled architect, using an endless variety of elements and conditions to build forests which are both structurally sound and aesthetically beautiful. But for any animal or plant that lives there, the woods are little more than a game of chance.

Young pine saplings—those fortunate enough to have their seeds cast into a clearing by the forces of gravity and wind—must be aggressive in setting their roots and reaching for the sky. After all, competition is fierce, as the forest floor is covered with grass, ivy, burning brush and other broad-leaf shrubbery. These plants, like the sapling, must fight for their share of the moisture below and the sunlight above. Nature will choose only the most robust sprouts—planted perchance in the perfect places—to survive among all the contenders.

Then, even as it grows, the thin-needled spruce must fight with the birch, poplar, ash and elm… each of which are armed with wider leaves, making them able to drink faster those rays that pour down on the forest. The evergreen knows an advantage, too, however; one that will not be apparent until autumn. The change of seasons will send most of the forest into a state of dormancy. Leaves will be shed, grasses will turn brown and lie down… leaving a greater share of sunshine to the conifer, even though the days grow shorter and the nights longer with the approach of winter.

While other trees sleep, the evergreens make their move, which is one of the reasons Jack Pine, Blue Spruce and Douglas-fir trees so dominate many northern forests. Another reason is the sheer efficiency of these knotty pines. Once established, they waste little energy growing limbs at lower levels; little sunlight is to be had there. In a congested forest, they reserve green growth for the highest portion of their canopy, where sunlight is plentiful.

On a walk through the woods, you will see many small, lifeless trees… whose browned needles have withered in the shadow of more successful, mature, majestic trees. And, you will see giant pines whose branches have gone bare or broken. Birds that once used the tree as a nesting place now chop and peck at its trunk for sap, knowing insects will get caught in the sticky syrup and preserved until mealtime. Eventually, though, these injuries become a place for grubs and disease to enter, and the weakened tree can only wait for a strong wind to knock it over, where it can melt into the forest floor.

Again, nature has made her selection. But it is nothing to worry about... as the opening in the woods will be taken by one of a million sprouts, as another game begins.

.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

About roots

Autum 2009 ~

One of the pleasures of living in the Midwest is the chance to observe simplicity. Often, even the most complex items have very basic roots.

For example, we can look out our back door and see the authenticity of farms which are still run by families. Farms which show the character of their years; wrinkles and lines and graying wood that were earned through generations of hard work.

Agriculture has become a complex industry. It would be a shame to overlook the beauty, sweat, and simplicity of its origin.


© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

A walk in the meadow

Autumn, 2009 ~

I believe that conservation begins with appreciation. Once a place has made an impression on you--when it becomes significant to you--you tend to take care of it. That place need not be distant, or exotic, or even amazing. It need only be… a place you appreciate.

Our residence sits on a lot in such a manner that its front faces the North/Northwest, leaving the back door facing toward the South/Southeast. The rear step overlooks an odd parcel of land which is partially meadow, partly brush, and partially wetland. As recently as a few years ago it was a hay field, as evidenced by the handful of tall round bales that remain scattered about the area. The conversion from field to wetland has occurred only over the past few years, as the surrounding neighborhood has been developed, and as an increasing amount of water has been released from Pelican Lake, a few miles to our west, flowing slowly toward the Crow River, which sits a few miles to our east.

Even though our home is no more than two hundred feet from the meadow, the appearance of the land belies its more rugged nature; from the house, it looks like a gentle field, covered with a variety of grasses and flowers in the summertime. But if you walk up to the edge of the parcel, you realize that the blades of grass can reach far over your head, perhaps six to seven feet tall in some places. Deer will appear—and disappear—out of nowhere… because of the way the grass provides complete cover.

I often pause to look out over the meadow, toward a particular round bale that sits in a clearing near the middle of the pasture, close to a small clump of trees. At times, I have seen it used as a lookout tower by a pheasant; these hay bales are perhaps five feet in height, allowing the relatively short bird to survey the immediate area as if it were his domain. On a cool autumn morning, I saw that same bale serve as a bed for a coyote; a warm alternative to sleeping on the cold, wet ground. Close by, I have seen a doe and her fawn nibble on the tender grass.

One Saturday afternoon, we were paid a visit by Caitlyn and Lydia, our granddaughters. Being an infant, Lydia stayed home with grandma Julie… but Caitlyn and I decided to venture out to the meadow, with the goal of making it all the way to that bale of hay in the middle of the field.

Early on, we realized how wet a wetland can be (our shoes were often under two to six inches of water at the base of the grass). And we learned just how pokey a swarm of thistle plants can be. And we re-discovered how clingy cockleburs can be. But Caitlyn smiled through it all. With cat tails and blade-grass reaching high over her head, we stayed close together… and if we ventured away from each other, we spoke in loud voices to make sure neither of us wandered too far. It was a great adventure… one of those days when you could lose track of who was the grandparent, and who was the child.

On the way home, we came across an area of open meadow where a number of furry caterpillars seemed to be having a hearty lunch as they prepared for winter. Caitlyn was fascinated by how big and soft they were... and I was fascinated by my granddaughter's expression. Careful to not disturb the little critter, she held-up a blade of grass that one particularly fluffy crawler had clung to... and spent a few moments admiring the creature.

I spent those same moments admiring the look on Caitlyn's face.

She was in awe, for a time, fascinated by the way the caterpillar moved, the way it held-on to the grass, and the thickness of the fur coat it wore... as if it knew the cold season was fast approaching. As she studied the caterpillar, it was clear that this landscape had become an escape; a place to enjoy, observe, and imagine. Her smile provided evidence... of appreciation.

No one person will ever be capable of saving the planet. But connected to it through a series of small experiences, Caitlyn is the kind of person who will grow up to save parts of it. Nobody will need to ask her or tell her to do it. The decision was her own, inspired by a caterpillar.

What a smart kid.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.